Sherlock Holmes: A Tale of Two Detectives
by XtomJames
Summary: The strange happenstance of two Sherlocks leads them to discover each other and the truth behind their family.


SHERLOCK HOLMES

& The Tale of Two Detectives

By Kristoffer J Martin

1905 London

 _London_ _St. James Gazette_ _; Famed Detective Dead_

 _Sherlock Holmes,_ _famed_ _detective and brother of one Mycroft Holmes,_ _former member of the House of Lords, died of "unknown" causes in his home. The detective was made famous for his efforts in_ _solving the murders of Enoch Drebber, et al. He is survived by his colleague Dr. John Watson._ _Dr. Watson has said in past interviews "_ Holmes' skills were, in a word, remarkable. None before him and none after him will compare. It is a great loss..." _Details as to his burial will be provided as they formulate._

"A disgrace, just a disgrace," said a weeping Mrs. Hudson. Her aged face covered by a veil. Her wheelchair sternly seated at the front of the chapel. "You know he wouldn't want this, John."

"Yes, but it is the custom," John fidgeted a bit, "But St. Andrews was kind enough to let us hold the wake here." The room slowly filled as many of the police Sherlock helped came to pay their respects. Even Lestrade stood in the back. The sweet scent of roses filled the air around them as a sly voice broke their conversation. "My dear Dr. Watson, so lovely to see you again."  
"Yes, and you too Irene," said Watson absentmindedly before he turned with a start, "Adler?!"

"Yes darling, as if I would miss my Sherlock's funeral. To think he'd die in the middle of nowhere." Irene was beautiful as ever despite the wrinkles around her lips and crow's feet about her eyes. "You're wanted..." whispered Watson.

"Yes, and the only man with the evidence to convict me lies in his coffin." Irene smiled as she sat back in the pew. The Chaplain Longrude tapped a pedestal on the dais which brought the crowded room to attention.

"When the somber news came Mr. Holmes passed away I can say without pride that I wept. Some of you may know he helped our church only a few years ago in locating a stolen relic. I believe, despite his misgivings towards the Church, he was a good man, and he is surely in the Lord's hands. With regret, his family has requested a closed casket. We ask you pay your respects with the same levity as would be expected otherwise. Please stand for the Lord's Prayer."

The wake lasted hours as the guests paid their last to the great detective, and in due course he was born unto the hearse by many of the officers who'd come to pay their respects.

***  
Deep in the bowels of the MI6 headquarters in central London and aging and strangely thin Mycroft Holmes paced. Dark circles cupped his eyes, his head balding with grey sprigs of hair stuck out in all directions. The stark hall was dimly lit and smelled of a closed hospital wing. A heavy steel door swung open and a man in surgical robes beckoned Mycroft to enter.  
"Mr. Holmes, we did all that you asked," said the Doctor.

"Good, good," Mycroft nodded, "Dr. Watson I hope your father is in good health."  
"He is, for a man of eighty he is still quite spry." The doctor dropped her mask revealing a young lady no more than thirty. "Are we to proceed with the project?"  
"Yes," said Mycroft. The room they entered was filled with the most advanced technologies of the time. A chemistry lab littered, a counter the length of the room, and on the autopsy table, laid out, was the body of Sherlock Holmes. The upper part of his skull was totally removed, and his brain removed. "As you asked we've placed his brain in a preservative state. It's currently under lock and key of course."  
"You're sure it won't degrade?" said Mycroft.

"We're confident it won't. So long as the refrigeration unit is powered it will remain at the appropriate temperature."

"Then there is not much else to do but wait."

"Wait for what sir? I'm not entirely sure what the purpose of this project is, but preserving his brain seems beyond all reason."

Mycroft smiled and pulled out his pipe. He contemplated her question as he lit the pipe. Smoke swirled as he slowly let out his breath. "People far smarter than me, Dr. Watson….Jeaannie, can I call you Jeannie?"

Dr. Watson nodded. "People far smarter than me foresee a future use for my dear brother. As your father lamented, he is one of a kind."

1940, September The Blitz

 _Boom,_ the explosion rocked the underground facility. An aging Jeannie ran down a dark hall, the power flickered on and off, dust and tile fell from the walls. Several agents scrambled past her as another shell hit above. "Damn," she spat as several beakers fell and broke. Smoke smoldered and sparked giving way to an acrid smell of sulfur. Jeannie clung to the counter with each concussive blast. Ears ringing she reached the storage unit which hung open. Cold air condensed the humid air of the lab illuminated in bursts of failing lights. Two agents came in after her electric lanterns in hand. "Dr. Watson you need to come with us, we're evacuating."  
"I can't without this, help me!" she yelled. As the two agents scrambled to the door the chemicals caught fire. The blaze raced across the puddle of liquids quickly lighting the room and filling it with dense smoke. "Quick...kuh...hurry.." The agents and Watson heaved Sherlock's preserved brain out of the refrigerating unit and out of the lab. "We need to keep the canister below negative one hundred centigrade," said Watson. Smoke billowed from the lab filling the hall.

"There's nothing we can do," said one of the agents; a young man with dark hair and a gaunt face. "We need liquid nitrogen, wait here..." without a second thought Jeannie ran back into the lab and the young agent followed. The fire burned with intense heat, beakers exploded around them as the two raced back to the refrigerator. Jeannie left no time to chance and quickly unscrewed the a tank from the wall. "Cah...kugh...what..." said the agent.  
"Get the cart," Jeannie sputtered. As their vision blurred and the storage room filled with more and more smoke, they eased the tank onto the cart. The agent pulled the cart through the door and out into the lab. In this moment another shell rocked the lab and the ceiling of the lab collapsed. As he turned back to Jeannie he saw her out stretched hand under the rubble..

"Doctor..." the young agent screamed, but it was too late. Without a second thought he pushed the cart from the lab. "Where's the doctor?" asked the other agent. The young man shook his head, "We can't save her."

"What do we do with this?"

"Do as she ordered," said the young agent. He plugged the hose of the tank into the canister and the two men rushed the cart to the emergency exit. The two agents hastily carried the cart and all up the stairs as another bomb shook the structure. With the last flicker of light the hall collapsed behind them.

1945 The Circus

"Agent Jean Carter, Agent Richard Leeks, thank you for joining us," said a squarish balding man, "We asked you here to report on the events of September seventh during the beginning of the Blitz."

"We understand," said Agent Carter.

"Chief Menzies, before we begin, can I ask what more can be said?" asked Leeks.  
"The SIS regents would like to know what you know of Project Holmes?" asked Menzies.  
"Not much, sir." said Leeks, who cradled a prosthetic arm exposed by his rolled up sleeve.

"We weren't privy to much of the going-ons in the laboratory. It was above our pay-grade," said Carter. His brown hair kept as it had been for the last five years.

"In your report, you stated Dr. Watson was buried under a pile of rubble and you had no choice but to leave her behind as the lab she worked in filled with smoke from a chemical fire. Is this correct?"

"Yes, sir." said Carter.

"And you saved the canister?"

"We did, Dr. Watson ran back into the lab to retrieve liquid nitrogen to..." Carter stopped and looked at the Chief. "Continue, please," said Menzies. "I followed after her and helped her get the nitrogen and as I pushed the cart out of the storage unit the ceiling collapsed. There was nothing I could do."  
"I'm sure that is the case," said Menzies. "It is regretful she died, but thanks to you her work will go on. As of today you are assigned to Project Holmes. In part you are to protect key researchers including Dr. Watson's son, John Watson. He is the lead researcher on the project. You'll find all of the details here." Menzies passed to them a sealed folder, the stamp of a phoenix and the Holmes name over the seal. "From this day forward, gentlemen, you are cleared for all Ultra Level secrets. Learn this project inside and out. You are no longer Carter and Seeks. You are now agents Adler and Moriarty."

Seeks and Carter looked at each other and nodded slowly. 

**Chapter One**

Sherlock strummed his violin gingerly in the front room of 221b Baker street. "I need a case," he said aloud. "Did you hear me?" He turned his head, his sharp eyebrows furrowed, "did you hear me Watson?" John poked his head around the corner looking into the main room. His beady eyes peered up at Sherlock, "Yes, right, well there's a request asking to help you find a missing person. Damian..."  
"Damian Atwood, missing for three weeks, his father Archibald posted an ad in the Times four days after the he reported his son missing to the police. Boring."  
"Boring?"  
"Yes, boring. His son isn't missing, he's buried in their back garden."  
"How..." Watson stopped himself.

"No ransom request, no idea as to where a ten year old boy might wander off to from his parents. No contact from friends or family. Oh John isn't it obvious?"  
"Well, I...I don't see how it's obvious."  
"His hand was covered during the on air request. Makeup on his left cheek covered up where he was struck. His wife is nowhere to be seen. Dirt under his fingernails, a freshly planted row of flowers. It's all right there."  
"Shall I phone Lestrade then?"

"Go on, I need a real challenge." Sherlock flopped onto the couch and rubbed his temples.  
"WHAT!" yelled Lestrade over the loudspeaker on Watson's mobile. "You heard right," said Watson. "And you kept this from us, damnit Holmes."  
"Uggh..." sighed Holmes.

Watson ended the call with a sullen beep from his phone. "Well that's cryptic." Watson clicked on a new request simply titled _urgent_. Holmes lulled his head to one side to look up at Watson.

"Sherlock, you should read this." Watson waved his hand a bit prompting Sherlock to sit-up.

"What is it?" asked Holmes, who stood and strode over to Watson and bent over to read the screen.

 _Urgent: I need to speak to Sherlock Holmes, meet me_ _Prendergast Hilly Fields College in one hour. My life depends on it. M  
_ "Who's M?" asked Watson.

"There is one way to find out." Sherlock grabbed his coat from the hook on the back of the door and swung it on, "coming?" Watson nodded and followed suit.

Thirty minutes later the two strolled up Eastern Road, the cold November air brimmed with the their breath and the playground was loud with the laughter of children despite the growing darkness. An aging man sat at a picnic table watching the crowd of people. His brown hair was unkempt, large thick glasses framed his wrinkled face. A thick black coat and woolen scarf hid his physique. Both Sherlock and John spotted him at the same time as he spotted them. He nodded slowly before lighting a pipe.

"Do you recognize him?" asked Watson as they walked towards him. Sherlock frowned and said nothing. "M, I presume," said Sherlock as they reached the table.

"Indeed, thank you for coming." The man beckoned for them to sit, but Sherlock remained standing. "Distrustful as always, Sherlock." The old man grinned.

"Who are you exactly?" said Watson.

"Dr. Watson, for now that will have to wait. I'm glad you came, there is someone I want you to meet." The man gave a whistle and a young boy came running. Sherlock's face turned white. "I think you know who this is." The boy was no more than eight or nine years old. Tight black wavy hair bounced as he ran to them. "I'd like you to meet Sherlock," said the man.

**

Kitty unlocked the door to the brownstone. The Brooklyn street was filled with snow covered cars parked end to end that glistened in early morning light. "Sherlock, you home?" Kitty carried a bag of groceries into the kitchen and sat them down on the counter. "Sherlock, I got the danish..." She took a turn around the downstairs and then upstairs without any sign of Sherlock. "Ask me to get danish..just...I've missed something," she muttered to herself. Descending the stairs she noticed Sherlock's bulletin board askew, papers on the floor were turned up, she look evermore carefully. Broken glass pieces, not shards but safety glass, was sprinkled across the papers. Faint scuff marks along the baseboard, and a new scratch in the wood floor near the door leading to the basement all stood out to her. "Another puzzle to solve..."  
Kitty opened the basement door and crept down the stairs. A drop of blood then another stood out to her. " _This isn't a puzzle_ " she thought. As she made her way into the basement the whisper of speaking reached her.  
"Who are you?" said the familiar grate of Sherlock's voice.

"I'm-I'm..." came a child's stuffy voice.

Kitty walked up to the door leading to her office and opened the door. Sherlock stood over a young boy, who so happened to have tissues stuffed up his nose and blood dripping down the front of his shirt.  
"Sherlock!" exclaimed Kitty, "what're you doing down here and who is this?"  
"That is something I'm trying to ascertain," said Sherlock, his face was ashen.

"Did you do this to him?"

"No, not exactly."

Kitty knelt down to the boy's level and looked him the face, "Are you alright? Let's have a look at you." She checked him over checking his nose for a break.

"What's your name?" asked Kitty, "I'm Kitty..." Through a stuffy nose the boy weakly said, "Mycroft Holmes..." Kitty looked to Sherlock and back to the boy confused. "Well, Mycroft what are you doing here?" But before the boy could answer he fell backwards in a faint.

Sherlock sat before several monitors as Kitty came downstairs. "Named after your brother, that's a new one." said Kitty.

"It's not so simple I'm afraid. He's not named after my brother, he is my brother." Sherlock turned to Kitty, his eyes searching her for answers that weren't there. "What do you mean, he's your brother?"  
"He looks just as he did when we were younger. I don't know how this happened, or who he is, but we have to find out. _"_ On one of the screens a news headline flashed _"Former British researcher found shot dead at LaGaurdia Airport. Police seeking any information relating to the death."_ Sherlock's cell hummed with a text. Sherlock glanced at it and grabbed his coat. "Stay here, Lestrade beckons."  
"Let me guess, you're heading to LaGaurdia."

Sherlock nodded, "Don't wait up."

***

Sherlock and John sat across from the man as the younger Sherlock played with the other kids. "I can't tell you much Sherlock, and probably not more than you've already discerned. So let me be brief, your life, that boy's life, mine, they're all in danger. I wouldn't bring him to you unless it was absolutely necessary." Sherlock stared at the man, "I do recognize you, but from where?" he said absentmindedly.  
"Who are you?" asked Watson.

"A relic Dr. Watson, a relic. You know," he said, "you have the same eyes as Jeannie Watson. Bright and blue." He stood, "I leave him to you two. Watch over him, I'll be in touch."  
"Wait, M...you signed your message M." said Sherlock as he turned his gaze back to the man. As he glanced up at him an old memory flashed in his head of a far younger version of this man in a hospital.

"You'll remember in time, they're..." _Thud_ the man slumped over as a slug pierced his jacket from behind. "John, move!" Sherlock ducked followed quickly by John. Another shot hit the table, and then another. "Sniper...we need to get the boy out of here." John nodded and gulped, "What've you gotten us into?" As another shot hit the table, the sound of the gun echoed and the remaining parents and kids panicked. "He's getting closer," said John.  
The younger Sherlock at the sound of the gunfire ducked into the play equipment. As sirens whirred in the distance the shots stopped. Sherlock poked his head out over the table and panned the park and building line. "I think he's gone," said Watson.

"No, if the sniper was bold enough to shoot into the middle of a crowded park, whoever it is, isn't worried about getting caught." Sherlock looked over the table once more before dropping down again. "I'll distract him, you get me...the other me...the kid."

"On the count of three then?" said Watson, but Sherlock stood up and ran towards where the sniper fired from. "Right..." said Watson as he got up and booked it for the play equipment. Much to Sherlock's chagrin he wasn't shot at. It was moments later the police arrived lead by an irritated Lestrade.

"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade was screaming before he exited the car. "What the bloody hell is going on?" he said as he exited the car. "I get a report of gun shots fire...d….is that a dead body?"

"It's not what you think, there's a sniper...or was." Sherlock huffed.

"Sniper...shit, you and you sweep the perimeter," Lestrade barked at two officers as more police arrived. Moments later Hilly Fields Park swarmed with police. By the time the all clear was called news reporters and camera crew were staged at each of the entrances.

"What a circus," said Lestrade, "and who's the victim?" He pointed to the old man slumped over the picnic table.

"A client," said Watson.

"A client? Jee-sus..." exclaimed Lestrade under his breath.

Sherlock hastily searched through M's pockets, only to find a tattered wallet with no ID, a few twenty pound notes, and a strange note with a series of numbers. "Did you find anything?" probed Lestrade. "Nothing of interest, an empty wallet with a hundred quid and twenty pound notes. No identification, no clue as to who he is," said Sherlock.  
"Why do I have the notion you're hiding something?" said Lestrade. He eyed Sherlock up and down. "Out with it!"  
Sherlock shook his head and his brow furrowed, "It's as if he knew...what I can tell you, Lestrade, is this man was clever. His large jacket hid he was wearing a bullet proof vest..." Sherlock flipped open the front lapel of the man's coat revealing a hidden ballistic grade vest. "...he was military trained and he carried a side arm..." he pointed to an empty holster, "...the age of the holster and wear along the edge and interior suggests an Enfield number two mark one revolver. Standard issue for MI-six agents during the Cold War. Of course anyone could purchase this revolver these days." Sherlock glanced back at the play equipment as he finished. "I need...more," said Sherlock.

"We need to finish this up before the...oh buggering hell," Lestrade threw his hands up as a stream of reporters pushed up the hill. Camera flashes strobed. "Get them back down the hill, who let them up here?" yelled Lestrade. Several police-constables started to push the reporters back, herding them down the hill towards Vicar's Hill.

One brazen reporter snuck around a stone-henge and made her move along with her camera man. "Detective Lestrade, Abigail Kensington, London Times, what can you..."

"How'd you get up here this is a crime scene," said Lestrade as he faced down the reporter.

"Is it true there was a sniper..."  
"I said leave, now, before I arrest you for interfering with an investigation."

Sherlock nodded to John signaling him to leave, and as Lestrade was distracted, Watson extricated the young Sherlock without notice.

"You'll let me know when the coroner is done with him, Inspector?" said Sherlock.

Lestrade glanced over his shoulder and nodded. Sherlock strolled down the hill along a back path, which he'd indicated to Watson with practiced precision as they were pinned down. At the bottom of the hill, both Watson and the young Sherlock were waiting for him.

"I think," started Watson, "this one takes the cake. What're we going to do with...him?" He gestured to the boy. "For now, back to Baker street," said Sherlock. The young Sherlock looked up to his elder-self quizzically, examining his features, "You knew grandfather," he said with a small voice, "he said you'd help us."

"Without a doubt," said Sherlock, a strange smile crossed his face in a sharp V. He crouched down as Watson crossed the street. "Tell me, Sherlock," said Sherlock to the boy, "what was your grandfather's name?"

"Moriarty," quipped the younger Sherlock, "Grandpa Moriarty."

**

Sherlock arrived at LaGuardia airport nearly an hour after the initial text. His head surged back and forth with different possibilities. _"Look alike? Clone? Who'd clone Mycroft? Father? No...yes! No...wait..."_ He shook his head as he quickly crossed to two NYPD officers. "Take me to Lestrade, he's expecting me."

"Sherlock, right?" said the first officer. She was shorter, around five foot two, by her appearance she was fresh out of the academy. "I'm a huge fan... Georgia." The other scowled, "Freak," he spat. Sherlock glanced at his uniform, a small badge and name plate read Sargent Reed.  
"Georgia, lead the way," said Sherlock, he nodded perniciously at the Sargent as he lifted the caution tape and carried on. "What can you tell me about the murder?"

"Not much, they don't tell us anything. Guard this, don't let anyone into the crime scene, keep an eye out for anyone suspicious." Georgia smiled and awkwardly gushed over Sherlock. For five excruciating minutes Sherlock endured the officers gaze until they finally reached the scene. Captain Harrison and Detective Lestrade beckoned him forward prompting him to leave the giddy Georgia behind. "See you Sherlock," she said squeakily. With a quick hop on the balls of her feet she wondered back to her post.

"This is the victim?" Sherlock pointed to an older man wearing a long black trench coat. His bald head dripped with blood from a long gash over his left ear. A bullet hole was visible in the right shoulder. From the position of his body, which was laid out between the counter and coat rack of a checked baggage claims room, it was clear he wasn't shot there.

"He didn't die of the gun wound, it was a non-fatal shot. In fact..." Sherlock reached down and lifted the man's sleeve revealing the prosthetic arm, "...I suspect the bullet never hit flesh." Still kneeling, he quickly examined the head wound with a small pocket magnifying glass. "The wound happened sometime before he died, the blood is congealed. It's maybe a day a few hour's old, a day tops." Sherlock stood back up and examined the counter, his eyes scanning the surface.  
"This section was closed off due to construction and renovations," said Lestrade. "We've already asked for surveillance footage, but the two cameras directly facing this counter were disconnected. CSI already swept the area for signs of a struggle, but nothing in the immediate area suggests a fight went down." Lestrade leaned over the counter towards Sherlock. His three day old beard bristled, "You listenin' Holmes?"  
"He did die here, and I suspect from a heart attack," said Sherlock as he stood again this time placing a small pill on the counter. "That is Losinopril an ACE inhibitor marketed under the brand name Lonopril. Not surprising given the victim's age, but clearly he was trying to take it and subsequently dropped it as a cardiac event kicked into high-gear. High blood pressure mixed with running for your life, obviously a lethal combination for someone with heart problems. He ducked in here to hide knowing he couldn't outrun whoever shot him."

"His name, at least according to his passport was Richard Dorothy," said Lestrade as he handed over an American passport to Holmes. Without a second glance Sherlock handed it back, "It's a fake."

"Fake?" Lestrade looked the passport over, "How can you tell?"  
"There are too many feathers, on the seal..." Sherlock pointed to the wings of the bald eagle which comprises most of the seal printed on the front of the passport. "There should be nineteen feathers on each side. This one has twenty-three, common mistake among third rate counterfeit artists."

Sherlock slid over the counter dropping his leg over the other side with ease. "You've shown little progress since your time in London, Lestrade. Still hoping to take credit for my efforts."

"Buggerin'...I'm not...you know damn well..." Lestrade gasped a bit, feigning his exasperation at the accusation. "Don't worry Lestrade, no doubt if you did you'd be ousted from the NYPD." Sherlock smirked as he started walking back towards the main entrance. Lestrade stood there annoyed. Captain Harrison waited for Sherlock by the tape and fell in step as they made their way down the long corridor. "Holmes," he started. The Captain's suit was ruffled, wrinkled, and one of his shirt tails peeked out of his unbuttoned jacket. "Captain, I take it your trip was uneventful, well, until you arrived here."

"Uh...yes," the Captain was slightly taken aback, "it was a long flight. I heard you were good, but, I-uh..."

"You're not sure how to handle my consultancy considering what happened to Captain Graigson, I'm not surprised." Sherlock pulled up short and turned to the Captain, with the best smile he could manage, given the circumstances. "My services are at your disposal, as they were to him."

"Right, about that, the Mayor's office is pushing me to...uh...discontinue our relationship." The Captain scratched his head, his young face speckled with five o'clock shadow. Tired rings cupped his eyes and it was clear his attempts at sleep on the plane were less than fruitful. "As it happens, had it not been for Detective Lestrade, you wouldn't have been notified of this incident."  
"No matter, Captain," said Sherlock as he turned back to his path out of the airport, "right now I'm the only one who knows where that man came from, and more importantly where he was shot." The Captain, mouth slightly agape, followed after Holmes. It was long before the two arrived at a cordoned off taxi park. Scaffolding and plastic tarp fluttered in the wind, and a tall construction barricade obscured most of the space from the parking lot.

"Imagine, Captain, you're an old spy, trained in the arts of espionage, and you have to keep a big secret. Maybe a secret you've been assigned for years. You travel to the US with a fake passport to meet a contact. Where do you meet?"

"Out of sight, somewhere no one can see." The Captain nodded as a burst of wind fluttered his loose shirt, prompting him to tuck it in. "Glad to see you have your wits about you," said Sherlock. He quickly crossed to a wall opposite the entrance to the parkway and pulled down a tangled tarp. "Our mystery man had a prosthesis, and most modern prosthesis are made of a composite metal, light weight, durable, and it's covered in a plastic shell. The shooter," Sherlock walked back a few paces nearer the entrance and ducked behind one of the tarps, "waited here. Whoever it was knew our victim would be here, it may very well have been the contact he was supposed to meet." Walking back to the far wall, Sherlock looked around until finally he found a brick on the ground with dried blood. "The shooter shot the man hitting him in the shoulder, which knocked him back. The victim then stepped backwards to right himself, only he didn't notice the rubble pile, he slipped falling down and hitting his head on the brick." Sherlock pointed to the brick. "Of course, the question isn't just who shot him, but why here," said Sherlock as he gestured to the space. "Why not a park, or in the construction section of the airport?"

"But wouldn't someone have heard the gunshot?" asked the Captain.

"Indeed, but with a silencer and constant engine noise, and with little foot traffic, a gunshot could easily go unnoticed. Mistaken for a car backfiring, or any number of noises common to a large airport."

"So the gunman shoots our victim, sees him go down, and thinking he's dead leaves. Only he wasn't dead?" said the Captain.

"I think it's going to be easier with you," said Sherlock, "maybe a few minutes later, based on the amount of blood, the victim regains consciousness and, thinking he is still being targeted, runs back into the airport. Heart racing, no weapon on hand, dazed, he does the only thing he can think of, he hides."

"Not to sound repetitive, but how...?" asked the Captain, shaking his head.

"Blood splatters, I noticed them on the way in, they were intermittent, a few drops here, a few drops there, all along the corridor from the entrance. Not something most people would notice, or if they did, would think it to be blood. I knew he didn't get shot in the airport, those pesky metal detectors and security wouldn't have made that easy, it was just a matter of connecting two and two together."

"I'll get CSU to block off this area," said the Captain.

"Right, and while you do that I have other business to attend to." Sherlock nodded to the Captain and left him to ponder the real crime scene.

 **Chapter 2**

Sherlock and John arrived at 221B a half hour later with Sherlock's doppelganger in tow. Mrs. Hudson stood at the door waiting for them all flustered. "Sherlock, your brother's waiting for you upstairs. He seems...well...you know how he is."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson..." said Sherlock in his customary fashion. Watson nodded to her, "Mrs. Hudson, if you could do us a favor..." Watson steered the young Sherlock away from the stairs, "would you watch over this one. He's had a bit of a fright just now."

Mrs. Hudson looked down at the boy and smiled toothily, "Of course...you don't want him to hear whatever the dreadful business is with Mycroft, I understand."

"What dreadful business?" said Watson, his eyebrows raised a bit.

"It's always dreadful business when he comes aroun' now isn'it," said Mrs. Hudson. Watson nodded and began up the stairs. He could hear Mrs. Hudson guide the young Sherlock into her front room, "And what's your name, dear?" she asked.  
"Sherlock, miss," he said.

"Really, that's most interesting..."

Watson entered the flat with Sherlock staring out the front window at the street. Mycroft nodded to Watson, "Close the door, if you would please."  
"What's going on?" said Watson. He turned from Mycroft to Sherlock and back again.

"Well," Mycroft started, "one of our agents went rogue..." Mycroft handed a folder to Watson. In red ink, stamped across the folder's front, read _Top Secret_. In a more dulcet tone Sherlock spoke without turning from the window. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the meeting we just had, and a dead body in the park?"  
"I haven't the foggiest idea, you were just in the park?" said Mycroft slyly. He placed his hand in the front pocket of his vest and pulled out a pocket watch, flipped it open and closed it again.

"Of course you don't," said Sherlock as he turned to face his brother, a faint grin crossed his face as he slung his coat off and sat down in his usual chair. "So who is this rogue agent I presume you want me to find?"

"It isn't the agent I'm worried about, it's what he has with him. An asset of sorts."

"And would you care to tell me what this asset is? Or should I guess." Sherlock placed his hands into a pyramid and held them to his chin. "You've gained weight," he remarked, "Fatty it is then."

Mycroft chuckled, "I always gain weight this time of year, it's all the puddings...no the asset is a blueprint for a weapon. If it falls into the wrong hands, well dire consequences, blah blah blah..."

Watson flopped the folder on the end table by Sherlock. He eyed Mycroft carefully, the years of dealing with Sherlock's older brother have only proven one thing, never trust him. "We'll take the case," he said.

"We certainly will not," said Sherlock.

"We'll take-the-case," said Watson as he glared at Sherlock. For a brief moment their eyes locked and Sherlock instantly understood. "Yes, right, we'll take the case," he said.

"Splendid, I'll be in touch." Mycroft headed for the door, but was cut off by Watson. "Let me walk you out." Mycroft hesitated and nodded to Sherlock. It took all of Watson's efforts to keep Mycroft occupied down the stairs, but without much ado he kept Mycroft from peering into Mrs. Hudson's front room. As the front door closed Mrs. Hudson emerged closing her door behind her.

"So who is he?" she prompted. "Who?" said Watson absentmindedly. "The boy, he says his name is Sherlock Holmes. Is he, you know, his?" she pointed upstairs.

"That's yet to be determined," came Sherlock's voice, "bring him upstairs."

The door to the study closed with a muted thud, Sherlock stood behind his usual chair as his young counterpart sat in Watson's. Watson


End file.
